The firefight raged on, intensifying by the second.
"RATATATATA!"
Owen fired a burst, forcing the last remaining gunman back behind cover. He turned and shouted toward Carlos, who was still crouched behind the police car.
"Damn it, what the hell are you waiting for? Get the hell back here!"
"No! George is still in there…"
"Shit!"
Owen finally understood why Carlos was stubbornly holding his position despite the imminent danger of being flanked. George was still inside. The fact that there had been no movement from the car meant that George was most likely injured.
"Shit!"
Owen fired another quick burst. He heard Morris cursing beside him and couldn't help but curse as well. The location was packed with civilians, making the use of grenades completely out of the question.
Typically, SWAT teams didn't carry lethal grenades—only flashbangs, tear gas, or stun grenades. However, the FBI, dealing with more dangerous opponents, sometimes carried fragmentation grenades, though they were rarely used.
"Reloading!"
Owen shouted as he ducked back behind cover. As he assessed the situation, he suddenly noticed a swarm of prisoners in orange jumpsuits pouring out from the back of the bus, scattering in all directions. Some were even armed.
At first, Monica hesitated to fire on them, but when she saw some prisoners retrieving weapons from fallen officers and opening fire, she yelled, "ASH, what do we do?"
"Engage all targets!"
Immediately, Monica and the other SWAT officers stopped holding back. The escapees were gunned down one by one—some taking headshots, others being hit center mass.
In the chaos, Agent Brad was struck in the head. He died instantly.
The sudden prison break threw everything into disarray. Alex Montel and his men used the opportunity to retreat to their vehicle.
"Cover me!"
"Got it!"
Morris laid down suppressive fire, allowing Owen to reposition. A quick burst later, he landed a shot on the last remaining gunman.
Owen moved in swiftly, weapon raised. He didn't care if the man was still alive—he put another round in his head just to be sure. Only then did he turn his attention to Carlos.
Carlos looked rough—injured, covered in blood, and out of ammo for his M4, having relied on his sidearm toward the end.
"You bastard," Owen muttered, smirking despite the chaos. "Holding your rifle over your head while firing… You looked like a damn terrorist."
It was an old joke between them—real terrorists never fired from the shoulder; they always sprayed wildly over their heads.
Carlos flipped him off, and the two of them rushed back to the police car to check on George.
Owen immediately spotted the other detective, Stewart, slumped in the backseat, his head a mess of blood and shattered bone. An old veteran of the Major Crimes Unit, Stewart had looked out for Owen when he first joined the squad. Now, he was nothing more than a cold corpse.
Owen felt something churn violently inside him.
In the front seat, George was barely clinging to life. His face was drenched in sweat from the pain. He saw Owen but was too weak to speak—his eyes moved slightly, a faint acknowledgment.
"Old man…"
Owen swallowed hard. George didn't look like he had much time left. The sight made his chest tighten.
"Damn those bastards…"
Owen turned, rage burning in his veins. Just then, the screech of tires came from the back of the bus, followed by an intense burst of gunfire from Monica and the others.
They were trying to escape.
Owen sprinted toward them.
Through the windshield of the fleeing vehicle, he saw Alex Montel in his prison jumpsuit.
That was all Owen needed to see.
He thought of George, barely alive in that car.
He thought of Stewart, lying lifeless in the backseat.
He thought of Zealot, unconscious and bleeding on the ground.
Owen's vision blurred with rage. Every muscle in his body tensed. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. The world seemed to slow down.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two rapid shots blew out the Ford's tires. The vehicle swerved, crashing into a tree.
Everyone burst from cover, shouting as they surrounded the wreck.
"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
"DROP IT NOW!"
Owen kept his rifle trained on the driver. The man reached for a gun—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Owen shot him three times in the chest.
But he didn't stop.
Even after the man slumped dead in his seat, Owen kept firing. Each round sent the corpse jolting against the seatbelt, the body twitching unnaturally.
The other SWAT officers stared, wide-eyed.
ASH, the team leader, knew Owen had lost control.
She glanced toward the police car. Something must've triggered him. Right now, he was running on pure instinct. If anyone—even a teammate—entered his line of fire, he would shoot.
The others noticed too.
Alex, still in the car, was seething.
This cop…
It was the same officer who had arrested him the day before. Now, he was the reason their escape had failed.
Alex would never forget this face. He wanted him dead.
Owen still had his weapon raised, but he had stopped shooting.
ASH moved in slowly, gently placing a hand on his rifle.
"Owen… It's over. We've got control of the situation."
Her voice pulled him back. The fog lifted from his mind.
Owen looked around, realizing what had just happened. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered his gun.
"Damn, man, you scared the hell out of us…"
Morris clapped him on the shoulder.
In the car, Alex's expression darkened.
"Well, looks like I lost this round… This is Hollywood, after all, isn't it?"
His men were dead, and he was surrounded by SWAT officers. He knew American law—he had surrendered, which meant no one could legally harm him.
More importantly, dozens of bystanders had witnessed everything, cameras in hand. No SWAT officer would risk their career over him.
Smirking, he opened the car door and stepped out. He glanced around at the dead bodies littering the street as if they were nothing more than inconveniences.
Owen saw that smug grin and snapped.
He lunged forward and kicked Alex hard in the knee, sending him crashing to the ground.
"You son of a bitch! You killed Stewart! You nearly killed George!"
ASH noticed the crowd of civilians filming. The suspect had already surrendered—if Owen kept this up, it could be a PR nightmare.
She signaled, and Campbell and Morris moved in to restrain Owen before he did something he couldn't take back.
But just as they reached him—
Alex pulled a knife.
He lunged, aiming for Owen's throat.
Campbell and Morris barely had time to react.
Owen twisted, avoiding a fatal strike, but the blade sliced across his face. Blood gushed from the wound.
Owen kicked Alex in the gut, sending him sprawling. The cartel heir coughed, gasping for air—yet he was still laughing.
Suddenly—
A gun landed at Alex's feet.
For a split second, instinct took over—he almost reached for it.
Then he looked up.
Owen was staring at him, expression dark and unreadable.
Alex knew.
If he touched that gun, Owen would kill him.
His back went cold with sweat. This wasn't some cop bluffing—this man truly wanted him dead.
Everyone around them understood exactly what had just happened. Owen had set a trap—he was willing to risk everything just to execute Alex.
Morris and Campbell dragged Owen away. Other officers moved in, restraining and cuffing Alex.
In the distance, sirens blared as police cars and ambulances arrived.
George and Zealot were loaded onto stretchers. The ambulances roared away, sirens wailing into the morning air.
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